Near Hattersheim, Hessen, Central Europe
November 9, 0087
Wide. The world was so wide here. Endless expanses of it, as far as the eye could see. Awesome in its beauty, terrifying in its scope. Everything was so real, so new, that it was like a dream given solid form. It even had its own smell; composed of a thousand other smells granted, but still a very particular smell. For lack of a better name, he called it freedom, and he reveled in every inhalation of it.
Even the cold could not touch Dietrich von Mellenthin at this moment, as he stood like a triumphant god in the wide palm of McKenna's speeding Dom, snow lashing him across the face and spattering across the goggles on his numbing face, wind whipping about him, forcing him to steady himself with a hand on the huge index finger of the mobile suit. It was a sensation he had not felt in a long time, the numbness of cold, not since the War. New Koenigsberg never enabled its weather pattern for snow, and it had been a shock to see it here that first time. That time, its curious majesty had been overshadowed by the fact that they had been in retreat, which was a taste in which to sour the finest wine on the palate. Not so with this snowfall. This one was different. This one held the promise of glory.
The other two suits were ahead and on the flanks, weaponry in hand and on call. The ice was kept at bay by the heat of their reactors and the huge GES thrusters that enabled them to skim on their cushions of air. Von Mellenthin admitted that he was indeed behind the times in the world of modern armored warfare and its weapons. The Dom had seemed a fantasy to them on the European front, where logistics had been scarce and equipment upgrades scarcer yet. There would be quite a catching-up session once the staging area at the Taunus Mountains was reached. He would make Reinhardt bring him up to speed, since the Colonel had probably memorized the capabilities of the new suits already. That was his way, after all, and it saved von Mellenthin the necessity of doing so himself, even though he was more than capable of the task.
Glancing around, his eyes on the white vista that was slowly sinking to gray as the sun set, he viewed his domain. His domain. Hessen. Hessia. So much history contained in this land, his history. Every snow-capped rooftop, every sentinel evergreen tree, every road and stream and soul. His blood hummed with the ambience of this place, and he wanted to purr and curl up and sleep, knowing that the only walls that contained him now were the ones he chose to place around himself. He was thankful his ancestors had finally returned to Germania after their exile in South Africa, but not to their old lands of Silesia, but to here. Now this was his to do with as he desired, his inheritance. The old Grand Duchy of Hessen-Nassau, established by Philip, the Landgrave of Hessen who had brought this area under his sway during the Lutheran Schmalkaldic War of the 1540s, whose power now rested on the person of one man, born to Space and bred to War, destined to lay the oppressors low and unite all Terra under the sway of blood and iron, to prove once and for all the righteousness of the Ordnung and the divine rule of the Emperors, sealed under the power of Zeon forever.
No pressure.
Ahead of them, the darkening masses that signaled the foothills of Taunus. It was a low range, but one heavily shrouded with forests, where the 10th Panzerkaempfer was lord and master. Mountains and forests, ever their shield and home. It would shelter them from Federation eyes as well now as it did during the War, though this forest was new to their touch. It would serve. A good thing that after the pollution of the 20th Century, the Greens had managed to wheedle their legislation through, and after a couple of centuries without acid rain, the forests that were a facet of German life still stood proudly, to grant the loyal sons of this piece of earth rest in their shade, and keep their enemies at bay.
But as nice as it would be to maintain a fairy tale that hiding in the woods would make them immune to the oppressors, von Mellenthin was too much the military realist to buy that line. Their foe cared nothing for this land or its people, and would burn every tree to cinders to destroy them. Even now, he was certain they were mobilizing, even with the threat of Nemesis hanging over them. They had no choice. The gauntlet had been thrown, and to simply let it lie would mean that the Federation admitted that it was too weak to deal with the 10th Panzerkaempfer. There would be battle, and carnage, and death again. There would also be victory, redemption, and vindication at last. It would feel as good as it did to be free again, of that he was sure.
He would not have wanted it any other way.
Near Darmstadt, Hessen, Central Europe
November 9, 0087
The convoy ran on running lights now, the setting sun finally having prematurely dipped below the western horizon, where its light would not penetrate the triple-layered obstacles of the Hunsbrueck, the Westerwald, and the Eifel ranges. Despite the lateness of the hour, the news helicopters flew, their eyes spying as best they could on the northward-bound collection of Zeon mobile suits and their heavy-lift truck in the center of the herd. The news people, avid for anything after the murder of one of their own at the hands of the man who would command this rebellion against the Federation, were wisely avoiding straying too close after a particularly daring one of their number went in for a close-up in the rapidly dimming light and discovered that the Zaku Cannon was rigged for flak. The wreckage of that helicopter had finally stopped burning somewhere back around Lorsch, but still they circled as long as they could before the lack of light and fuel forced them to withdraw, one at a time. What had been a dozen of them were down to a meager four, and none of them had the fortitude to test that Zaku Cannon's patience by illuminating them with spotlights.
If he'd had his way, the remaining four would have been swatted down as well, but Reinhardt von Seydlitz was a pragmatist. Press goons bred like fleas in the midst of a crisis, and this was no different. They would vanish of their own accord, when that time was nigh.
While dwelling on nigh times, he glanced over at de la Somme, who had managed to drive for the better part of an hour without making a sound. Von Seydlitz knew what that was. De la Somme was fuming mad, and the silent treatment was one of the methods by which he conveyed anger. It also signaled that he was enraged beyond belief, since just a simple mad would have been voiced almost immediately. For almost an hour, von Seydlitz had let the younger man stew, as he always had when they were just boys. It was against de la Somme's nature to hold onto anger for too long, else it made him ill at heart and then he was miserable. As a failsafe, he would get un-angry slowly, until he was capable of rational discussion, but the process took time.
Von Seydlitz could remember once, when von Mellenthin and de la Somme had gotten into a heated debate about whether or not the Federation or the Klingons had developed transporter technology first, when de la Somme had gotten into one of these fits of his and been prompted out of it too soon. He almost smiled as he recalled the event in detail. Von Mellenthin had been twelve, de la Somme all of seven years of age. In what at the time had seemed an amazing display of ignorance on the part of von Mellenthin (at least to von Seydlitz, who had seen his older foster brother judge the character of others to a tee who were far older than he), he had pressed and pressed his ludicrously-wrong point until de la Somme had shut up, then kept right on pressing, until the much-younger de la Somme (who was the Star Trek junkie of their group), had finally flown into a rather impressive shrieking frenzy, complete with thrown projectiles, screaming, and violence that went from point to point in the room, and did include his brother in his hurricane of destruction. It had turned out that he hadn't really cared about the argument at all, and he was upset about something completely different, and was venting it in one titanic burst of emotion.
After twenty entire minutes of this tantrum, and several dozen ruined objects of worth, the steam had finally been let out of their younger foster brother, who promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor, too wiped out to even stand. Antares had eventually 'gotten over it', just as he would eventually get over this. That was inevitable. Von Seydlitz mused at the irony of the fact that the little boy who had devastated a room of their house over his older brothers leaving him had, as an adult, handled the eight years without von Mellenthin's presence far better than he himself had.
Nonetheless, the silence in the cab was becoming uncomfortable, even to him. A quiet de la Somme was an unnatural de la Somme.
"You have my permission to speak, Kommandant," he spoke into the stillness.
"I'm so pissed at you I could chew my lips off," spat de la Somme after a moment.
"I would not recommend doing that. How would you blow kisses at Margul without your lips?"
The younger pilot snorted. "At least without 'em I wouldn't have to kiss your ass, sir."
Von Seydlitz's eyes slid sideways to look at de la Somme, who was pointedly looking straight ahead at the road. "Very well, then. It is just the two of us in this vehicle. Speak freely, like if we were at home."
The floodgate opened. "They're just kids, Reinhardt! Orphaned kids, like I was, you know, before! You're treating them like they're some kind of property, and that's just not cool! You never treated me like I was property, so why's this any different, huh? If you feel the urge to act superior, do me a favor and scare the hell outta me instead of them, okay? Even better, go terrorize someone who fucking deserves it, like that killer Margul, who shoulda been executed back at the War! Leave the kids alone, Reinhardt, please! It's not their fault that they're NewTypes, or whatever the hell they are, and it's not their fault that there's a war, and it's not their fault that the Feddies are assholes, and it's not their fault that Deet got thrown in the slam for eight years! Take it out on something else, for God's sake! Get a stress ball or a dog to chase or laid or something, but so help me if you ever touch one of those kids back there like that again, I will bitchslap you---"
Von Seydlitz tilted his head to look squarely at de la Somme, put his left fist inside his right hand, and then cracked his knuckles loudly. Mobile suits were one thing, but hand-to-hand was a whole different universe, with a different hill that von Seydlitz stood on top of.
"---Okay, maybe I won't, but something bad will happen to you if you do that again, because God'll see to it. Please just remember that they're kids, okay? You were a kid once, too, you know." With that, de la Somme fell silent, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat as the pent-up anger began to bleed away, and his system tried to find other ways to release it faster. He sank his teeth into his lower lip to try to stop the trembling.
For a long moment, von Seydlitz was silent. Then, "They do not look like children to me. What they are is something different. Pre-pubescent weapons, Antares, that wear the faces of men. They represent a future that was not supposed to occur yet. I am . . .not ready to accept that my time is done so soon, is all, and little children that can speak into my mind are irrefutable proof that the ideals that the Ordnung profess are indeed true. But I---I am not ready to step aside for them yet, even though I am forced to admit that they may be superior to me. Where was our time?"
De la Somme nodded. One of the tenets of life on New Koenigsberg had been the quest to breed a superior human amongst the Elector Houses. Von Mellenthin, and von Seydlitz, had been products of that line of reasoning, one that had been in place for a hundred years, and even then before the Reise zum Raum. But instead of the superior human being a product of Space, it was instead created on Terra, by a nation that refused to believe in the possibility of a superior human. Where de la Somme saw eight children, von Seydlitz saw eight reasons why he and his older foster brother were obsolete.
Von Seydlitz continued, voice and face cold and hard as ice. "There was never a reason to doubt that evolution through birth would see the rise of the next stage in Space, where there was room to evolve away from the hampering effects of Terra. I was born, Dietrich was born, even you were born, and I do not doubt for a moment that we are superior to any Terra-born human. But those things in the back . . .they were made. Constructed, by the Federation. A testament to artificiality, just like the machine-processed NewTypes their Titans use. Everything of Terra has become a thing of unnatural conception, even those 'children'. How are they to recognize what it is to be human if they have no frame of reference for what it is to be of humans? No, there are ten lifeforms in this vehicle, but only two of them are human.
"And I will not allow or accept the reign of an artificial being over the true Spacenoid. Superior humans or not, Ordnung or not, I will defy that fate with every power I can muster. I do not hate them, Antares, just what they were designed to do, and that is to supplant the order of things. The Federation has trod in a realm not even the most insane of us would ever go, and they did it blindfolded and ignorant of the devils they unleashed. Just like when they promised Space its freedom and then refused to relinquish control, and they paid a heavy price for that mistake. What price should they pay for this one? What price will we pay for this one?"
"How---how will Deet handle this?" He licked his lips, mouth dry from listening to his older brother's words.
Von Seydlitz scowled. "I am not certain, Antares. He may see them as you do, or as I do, or neither. You know he prefers his own opinions to base his schemes on. Sometimes I could guess his ultimate intention, but in this one . . .I simply do not know if he will raise them up as gods, or cast them down as proof of the inferiority of anything from Terra. Either of those fills me with a sense of foreboding, but there may yet be a third option that I cannot deduce."
"Hope so, for your sake." A terrible thing indeed to know one's purpose, then have a reason to doubt it. "Worst case, Reinhardt, baby, you get to clamber down here with the rest of us mortals."
"Only a mortal would say something so hateful to one who is not." De la Somme looked over at him with a snide expression on his face, and von Seydlitz suppressed a grin. There was a gulf between them on this, but both had simply decided to let it lie until the one whose word mattered more made the final decision.
Within the ring of moving armor, the heavy-lift vehicle sped northward, to meet with their King.
Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
November 9, 0087
The hour was late, but the lights were still on. The horseshoe-shaped table was full, and the C&C was full. Calls had been made, and some preliminary orders given, but the grand plan for how to deal with Nemesis was still in the planning stages. If a plan could be made at all from what little they really did know. Reports were trickling in from Heidelberg, from Lammersdorf, and from Mannheim. Pictures and video were still being collected. The dead were still being identified. With all that and the shadow of a bioweapon over them, it was no wonder everyone looked like they were going to collapse. Soldiers relied on information to do their duty, and the hardest part of being a soldier was waiting for that information to be provided.
The faces around the table were grave, in stark contrast to the face that occupied the center of attention in the room, standing in the midst of his superiors with his khaki and black uniform pressed and swagger stick oiled and polished to perfection. Edgrove, for one, grudgingly admitted that even if he was a prima donna, the man within the horseshoe at least helped bolster his own morale. Things had been on a down for hours now, despite the liters of coffee and the flasks of "reinforcement" consumed. There was just too much stress with all the unknowns they were working with.
"So," began Captain Herschel Invictus Cramer, tapping the end of the swagger stick on his cavalry boots (which were complete with spurs), "I'm gonna go out on a limb and presume, gentlemen and ladies, that we've got ourselves a raccoon in the yard, and me and my dogs've gotta tree him right quick, am I right?" The conference call had not been good enough an option for Cramer, who had hopped a ride on an outgoing shuttle to Bonn from Kassel to be here in person.
"More like a rabid badger than a raccoon, Captain," replied Edgrove. "Did you see the von Mellenthin interview this evening?"
Cramer actually snorted. "'Course I did, sir. Has that got anything to do with all this hubbub?"
"It has everything to do with all this 'hubbub'. What's your analysis of the von Seydlitz announcement, and his demands."
"Who?" Cramer's face twisted in confusion, a very similar expression to the one Edgrove was beginning to wear.
The Colonel blinked. "The announcement? The one they interrupted the interview with?"
"Oh, THAT one! Yeah, that was a doozy, wasn't it? Terrible about that fire and all that. Nothin' worse than some punk with no manners and a bad moustache making a public nuisance of himself."
Now Edgrove was not alone in his confusion. "Captain, von Seydlitz doesn't have a moustache."
Cramer blinked this time. "He don't?"
"No. You didn't watch the interview, did you?"
The blond moustache on Cramer's own face twitched. "Um, no, sir, I was . . . otherwise occupied."
Edgrove blinked. "Doing what, exactly, Captain?" This was unexpected.
"Football was on, sir. . .and a who as well, sir."
The room was silent for a moment, with the exception of Titans Captain Sajer's amused chuckle. Edgrove cleared his throat, mind reeling with but one thought: THIS is who we're counting on to beat the Zeeks at their own game?
"Yes, well, that's all well and good. You've been summoned here, Captain, to be briefed on a development that has taken place here in Central Europe, one of dire importance that endangers not only Europe, but the entire Federation as well."
Cramer's eyes actually gleamed. Everyone in the room knew that the Captain was a glory hound, who fancied himself the reincarnation of George S. Patton and J.E.B. Stuart, combined. He even affected certain peculiarities to match his ideal military personality, like the swagger stick, the spurs and boots, several rings on his fingers, a permanent scowl on his face, and a pistol constantly with him wherever he was. He was also a stickler for the dress code (minus his own exceptions, of course), a tyrant to his subordinates, and ran his Company like a Roman legion. The standard for the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company was a Roman eagle, in fact, with the numerals CIII and the words Letum ubique: "Death Surrounds", emblazoned underneath it. His mobile suits even had golden torsos, as though they were wearing centurions' breastplates. The only thing they were missing were red capes.
A veteran of the War, Cramer had been an air cavalry officer before switching to mobile suits, which he treated exactly like his old attack helicopter unit. He'd fought the Zeon in Africa, managing to survive despite two GMs shot out from under him during the course of the campaign. He was imbued with enough luck to have been present for the last battles of the reclamation of the continent, and someone thought that because of that, he was command material. While he did possess some talent for armored combat, especially in the open field where maneuvers were not only sound, but also necessary, he was not a well-rounded commander, and everyone knew it except for Cramer. In spite of his idol worship of Patton, Cramer hated intelligence reports, loathed dealing with logistics, and refused to consider history as being rife with possibilities for modern tactics. Despite all that, he was the Federation's biggest gun in Europe, besides the Titans, to use against the 10th Panzerkaempfer, and therefore useful. Besides, he adored combat against another armored force as much as he adored coaching football to the games on the vidvision. He was also utterly fearless and refused to admit defeat, ever.
"Well, Herschel, it goes something like this. At 1800 hours this evening, FNN began its much-hyped live interview with the imprisoned Zeon Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin . . ." the next fifteen minutes were taken up getting the rest of the story told.
When the assembled had finished, Cramer whistled. "I thought these rats'd been dead for a while."
"So did we all," admitted Edgrove.
"Now they're back," Cramer started pacing, eyes cast downward, chewing on his moustache as he spoke, "and snuck up on us with a sack of shit to hit us with. These ain't your typical Zeeks, are they?"
Edgrove motioned to a mousy-looking man who had been hiding in the shadows. He was the lowest-rank officer in the room, a Second Lieutenant. He was also the official historian, and the archivist. He shuffled forward, looking like an old man as he clutched files and folders to himself. After some fumbling, the little man settled himself near a computer terminal and activated the main screen in the room. A face appeared on the screen, young and obviously something that had been dredged from a school file. The man glanced at Edgrove.
"Proceed," said the Colonel, tempering it with a smile. Historians rarely got out of the archives, and usually did not relish being in front of an audience that all outranked them. The man's nervousness was justified.
Despite his appearance, the voice that came out of the throat of the historian was strong, albeit unconfident. "Sirs, the face on the screen is Dietrich von Mellenthin. Born on October 14, 0056, New Koenigsberg, Side 3. Only son of one of the administrators of the colony. In keeping with the social structure of New Koenigsberg, he began basic military training at age six."
"WHAT??" snapped Cramer, whirling around. "That's CRAZY!"
"Let him talk, Captain," said Edgrove before the historian could answer.
"Ahem," continued the small man, and the picture on the screen changed to a very young von Mellenthin, "he attended Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, New Koenigsberg, from 0063 until 0067. Graduated top of his class."
The picture shifted again, this time to an older von Mellenthin, wearing the dark green uniform of a cadet. "Was accepted into the Side 3 Military Academy in 0068, one of the youngest ever to attend. Graduated with honors in 0070, three years ahead of schedule, specializing in grand strategy and armored warfare. Was transferred to Granada in 0075 into the mobile suit training battalion. Please bear in mind that he is now age eighteen, and holds the rank of First Lieutenant."
Again the picture shifted. In this one, von Mellenthin was conferring with what appeared to be engineers, the legs of an MS-05 Zaku behind him. He was smiling, as though he were joking around with those around him. Another picture showed him at a table console, surrounded by other mobile suit trainees, pointing at something on the screen below them with a stylus. It looked like a maneuvers diagram.
"Jesus, he's so young," remarked Cramer, almost unconsciously, voice contemptuous. This was a truly alien concept to him, who was a Captain and nearing forty years of age. "No wonder he got his ass whupped. Stupid-ass Zeeks thinking kids'll win their damn wars for 'em. Barbarians, all of 'em."
"After graduating from mobile suit training in 0076, he was promoted to Captain, which is what he should have been during the War, except that something happened between 0076 and 0079, and Captain von Mellenthin became Colonel von Mellenthin, commanding the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade, Mobile Assault Corps, under Major General Kishiria Zavi. However, for as-yet-unknown reasons, the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade was listed as an 'autonomous' unit, not underneath the control of the Earth Attack Force or the Mobile Assault Force command structure. The 10th Brigade, dubbed 'Panzerkaempfer' by von Mellenthin himself, was combat-dropped into the Belarus region in the second drop of Operation British, March 11, 0079. Their mission was to spearhead Operation Lorelei, the conquest of Europe."
The screen transformed again. Von Mellenthin, conferring with his Battalion Commanders, somewhere on the Russian steppes. A city was behind them, relatively intact.
"Before you ask, that city in the background is the then-recently captured Minsk, March 13, 0079. The first thing the 10th Brigade did when they landed was the impossible, and that was take mobile suits across the Pinsk marshes in a day, and catch Minsk by surprise. Its conquest was . . .routine. Seven days later, they were in Warsaw, Poland. The day after that, Lodz and Poznan fell. Two days after the fall of Warsaw, both Berlin and Prague were taken in a simultaneous blitz." The picture on the screen was taken in front of the Brandenburg Gate, with two lines of Zaku IIs, each saluting, lining the street. Their pilots were on their open hatches, also saluting. Another Zaku II stood before the gate, receiving the salute as it marched through it. A close-up photo within the frame of the first picture revealed that it was von Mellenthin, making the conqueror's march through the Gate as though it were the Arc 'd Triomphe in Paris itself. There were Magella attack tanks arrayed below and to the fore of the Zaku IIs, along with infantry, all saluting. The photographer was on the ball with that shot. In black and white, it was reminiscent of shots from 1939, during Nazi Germany military parades.
"After the capture of Berlin, the 10th was upgraded to an understrength division, with two brigades, which was the largest the unit ever became during the War. The rest is common history, sirs, that I will not tire you with, but suffice to say that the 10th outran its own tenuous supply line, then was halted, cut off from the Zeon 14th Terrestrial Mobile Division, and pushed back during Operation Odessa. It is this picture however . . ."
The screen changed to one that was obviously taken in Paris. Von Mellenthin was in a group of people in Zeon field uniforms, gray and gold, in the center of the picture. The others were arrayed around him in lines, and the Eiffel Tower stood behind them, slightly damaged by what might have been a missile hit. One of the other people in the picture had his face circled in white.
". . .Which leads us to the second player . . ."
The picture shifted to a completely different face. Where von Mellenthin's pictures, even the formal ones, conveyed almost pleasantness, this face was harsh, angular, and impassive. " . . .Reinhardt von Seydlitz. Born November 9, 0057, New Koenigsberg, Side 3, the only son of another colony administrator. His parents were killed in an accidental Colony Corporation tunnel venting in 0063, and he was then fostered with the von Mellenthin family as a semi-formal adoptee. He attended Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, Side 3, from 0064 to 0068. A year behind his foster brother, Dietrich von Mellenthin, he was accepted into the Side 3 Military Academy, graduating in 0072, fifth in his class overall, but specialized in field tactics and armored warfare. He, too, was transferred to Granada in 0075, for mobile suit training, as a Second Lieutenant. He was seventeen years of age in that photo."
"Did they ALL start their training so young?" asked Sajer, who was paying uncharacteristically avid attention to detail in this briefing.
"No, sir, it appears to be something unique to New Koenigsberg. No other Bunch on Side 3 has this method of education."
"It's downright creepy," said Cramer, "makin' kids into killers. Animals."
"It's not a new idea, sir, " said the historian, knowing he was in his element now. "Sierra Leone used to employ children in their army at age seven, back in the 20th Century."
There were fewer pictures of von Seydlitz, and often what was available was in the background of other screenshots. He apparently was not a fan of cameras, but had been caught in a few nonetheless. He was not particularly photogenic, and he never seemed to smile, except in the scattering of pictures where he was caught with von Mellenthin, and he almost seemed human.
"Aren't they the fucking couple?" grunted Sajer.
"Shit," said Cramer, "you've been in each other's pockets since you were six years old, goin' though all that mess, you'd wanna find someone to be close to, too. You think they're . . .you know . . .like that and all?"
"If you mean homosexual, there's no evidence of it," commented Edgrove. "We combed through their history pretty well during the War, and it seems our man von Seydlitz isn't comfortable with affection of any sort, so I'd say 'no' to that theory."
"I concur, sir," said the historian, whose confidence had been growing as he'd gotten into the rhythm of the briefing. "From what we've gathered, their relationship was brotherly at best, but in actuality, it more resembled something almost--- medieval. Like a baron and his trusted knight confidant. We don't have anything like it in our society today that could be used as a metaphor."
"This is too fucking weird for me. Damn Spacenoid social mores. Can't tell anything from it." Sajer huffed, crossing his arms across his chest.
"So lemme get this straight," queried Cramer, "these two have been in the thick of it together since they were six, and this whole Nemesis thing is probably all their idea, too?"
Before the historian could answer, a voice boomed out from down the hallway. "They've known each other longer than that!!"
With a purpose in his step and a Crusade in his eyes, Camael Balke turned the corner and entered the room, a file folder at least eleven inches thick under his arm.
The room was on its feet in a second, except for Cramer, who had been standing. Edgrove's eyes were bugged out of his head, and a vein throbbed in his temple. "How in hell did YOU get in here!?!" he demanded, raging.
Balke smiled, tossing the file folder in front of the historian with a thud that only reams of paper can make when hitting a desktop. He gestured behind him with a thumb. "Your guard outside poked an ex-Ranger friend of mine in the chest with a finger one too many times. I think he's being rigged to an explosive device right now, one probably linked to his walkie-talkie, so I don't recommend calling for him. How're they hanging, Luke? The other one finally drop since your last promotion?"
Edgrove's nostrils flared. "Don't fucking call me that, you diseased little shit! Why the hell are you here, Balke?"
The ex-Captain stepped around Cramer, who had interposed himself between Balke and the rest of the room, as though the cavalryman were a chair or a pillar. "Well, I was listening to FNN on the radio while I was driving up here to motivate you into checking out the salt mine explosion at Berchtesgaden, but it seems the snakes got out of the sack and bit you in the ass cheek before I could warn you."
Sajer glared down at Balke. "And who the shit do you think you are, coming here to warn us?"
Balke glanced up at the young Titan, as if noticing him for the first time, then looked at Edgrove. "Who's the alphabet, Luke?"
'Alphabet' was a derogatory name for the initials FNG, or 'Fucking New Guy'. Sajer flared red, knowing full well what it meant. "My name is Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, civilian!"
Balke frowned. "Nah, that's too long. Is it okay if I call you 'Captain Assclown' for short?"
The Titan made like he was going to fling himself across the horseshoe table, and two or three Federation officers restrained him. Balke grinned sardonically. He had ten years and a lot more nasty on this kid in black and red. Like Cramer, Balke was nearing forty with each successive breath, but had managed to keep in decent enough shape despite the booze, drugs, and prostitutes.
"If these fuckups are what you've got for advisors, Luke, my man, it's no wonder you've got problems."
"You didn't answer my question, discharge. What the fuck are you doing here?" If he hadn't been out of shape, Edgrove was considering kicking Balke's ass himself. The man was a disgrace, and had been since he'd violated orders during the War.
After the Zeon blitz on Bayreuth, every combat officer of the 4th Cavalry Brigade had managed to get killed in action. Balke, an S-2 Intel officer from one of the Recon companies of the brigade, had assumed overall command of the remnants, and then proceeded to flee with what was left of his troops across all of Germania, then all of France, and had not stopped to fight until he had reached the Pyrenees Mountains that divided the Iberian peninsula from the rest of Europe, in defiance of every order Jaburo had sent him. He had even tried to convince the 4th Armored Division to abandon Luxembourg, against orders, and follow him and his troops to the butt-end of France and not engage the 10th Panzerkaempfer. Nor did he obey the order to assist in the defense of Paris. Instead, he and his surviving people crossed the Garonne River and spent a month destroying every bridge and mining every ford they could find, then set up a static defense on the far bank and waited for the 10th Panzerkaempfer to arrive. After the 10th had been pushed back and locked down in Metz, the Federation had court-martialed Balke for cowardice and dereliction of duty, as well as violation of direct orders during time of war. Thanks to the testimony of his surviving men, he had avoided imprisonment (and guilty verdicts) on the cowardice and dereliction charges, but was dishonorably discharged from the service for refusal to obey orders during time of war.
Edgrove had testified against Balke during the court martial. When the 9th Army had landed at Cherbourg, Edgrove had been tasked with bringing the survivors of the 4th Cavalry under Derrick's command. On the radio, in full volume, Balke had not only refused the order, but had basically informed Edgrove that he could take the paper the order was on and shove it so far up his own ass that he could taste it, and that Jaburo was invited to watch.
Balke had maintained for years that the 10th Panzerkaempfer had not been destroyed at Metz, and that von Mellenthin should have been executed. He had also argued that every action he took during the War was the correct one in the face of a superior enemy combat force, and that the people in Jaburo had no right to judge his on-field initiative when they lacked the information to adequately give orders under the circumstances. That argument had, of course, flown like a lead balloon.
And now here he was, being vindicated one raving point at a time. Edgrove had no desire or time to admit that they'd been wrong in judging Balke. He also hated the man's irreverence, holier-than-thou attitude, and rampant hedonism. Every filthy habit that Edgrove had despised throughout his entire military career were staples of life to a man like Camael Balke, who smoked, drank, chased loose women, hit on female officers in direct violation of regulations, flaunted his authority, defied the authority of his superiors, and talked like a common street ruffian. On the other hand, he hated Titans with a passion he reserved only for hating the 10th Panzerkaempfer, and he had fought this devil before, to the tune of it costing him most of his troops at the Garonne River. If he were only controllable . . .
"Saving your fat ass, last I checked," was Balke's reply, as he lit a cigarette with an antique Zippo Playboy bunny lighter. A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he slid a glance out the corner of his eye at Cramer.
"'Scuse me, son, but this ain't a smokin' area."
Balke looked Cramer up and down, and a grin swept across his face. "Well, aren't you pretty, sweetheart? Herschel Cramer, I presume? Camael Balke, a pleasure. I'd shake your hand, but I don't hear it when girls talk."
He flicked ash off of his cigarette in Sajer's general direction. "Or when assholes talk, for that matter."
Sajer looked like he was going to spontaneously combust, and only the hands holding him kept him from chucking a chair at Balke.
Cramer's eyes burned, but he was forced to blink when Balke exhaled into his face, then shook the hand off of his shoulder. Technically, had he his rank, Balke was Cramer's superior by seniority.
"Your sweet little chickies like Cramer here, not to mention 'Captain Assclown', haven't got a clue about what these Zeeks will do to them, and to you, do they, Luke? And Twitchy the Wonder Bank of Knowledge over there," he said, pointing at the historian, "is running on bad data, data that you're eating up like burritos with sides of snatch juice, then wondering why you've got a case of the runs."
The atmosphere of the room chilled, and he blew out a lungful of smoke. "No offense to the diarrhetics out there, of course."
Edgrove smashed a fist into the table. "All right," he said quietly, through clenched teeth, "what do you know, and make it good, or by God I will have you shot in the square like a dog!"
Balke smiled. "I've got a few bits of this and that on these Space Nazis, but there's some things I want from you cockmongers first, and if any of you've got at least enough brains in your assholes to think about sitting down and listening, you won't tell me 'no'."
Rhein River (near Mainz), Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe
November 10, 0087
Nighttime on the Rhine River, ever the most popular time for clandestine social rendezvous for romantic liasions. What would ordinarily be a time of whispers in the dark, the murmurs of love, and the moody yet subtle procedures of courtship, both traditional and radical, all while dimly illuminated by the lights of not-too distant Wiesbaden and the much nearer state capitol of Mainz, was almost as still as a tomb. The declaration of the 10th Panzerkaempfer had stunned Europe, but nowhere more so than Germania itself, and its night life was affected all the same. Instead of couples, who sought a queer form of solitude meant for two on the banks of the great river, there was no sign. Only the truly daring thought the whole thing a hoax, and found more challenge in convincing their paramours to come out of their homes and join them than in combating whatever fear they may have had of Nemesis. It was mostly the young out tonight, those who had little memory (or care) of the War and what it entailed.
No, despite the hate-filled words and the caustic demands of a person whose name few knew and whose past few cared enough about, and despite the cold of the air outside, this was the time for the heart. At the very least, the coffee shops and bars were still going, and business was brisk even so, as those who were afraid but still able to venture from home and hearth sought the company of others, feeling secure in groups. The topics of conversation ranged wildly, but few were willing to ponder the meaning of a Germany without the Federation. Few were prepared to debate its impact just yet. Besides, spoke the coffee shop philosophers and the tavern politicians, it was one thing to say that Germany was its own nation again, under the sway of its Spacenoid cousins; it was another thing to be such.
For those who did find solace in companionship but did not indulge in coffee or alcohol, there was still the river. To walk hand-in-hand with another soul was comfort enough, even in the chill of the air. Whatever the ebb and tide of the future, the river always flowed, changing but eternal all the same. And despite the lack of other traffic in the wake of Reinhardt von Seydlitz's words to the world, there were still boats. Those not enmeshed in the eyes of their would-be mates may have even noticed that there were three massive barges plying the river now, and paid them no mind further.
But none noticed the intermittent flare of a red mono-eye from beneath each barge, as their 'passengers' took a look at the riverbanks even as they continued on their way.
"Entering the Middle Rhine region. Slow to ten knots," ordered Wolfram La Vesta from his MSM-03C Hygogg. He, and the boat he was towing under the power of the amphibious mobile suit's thrusters, was in the lead of their little flotilla. "Prepare to divert to one-zero-five to skirt the Rettberg island."
The two MSM-07E Z'Gok Es behind him confirmed, and he took another quick peek around with the main sensor of the Hygogg. Traffic was pretty light around here, a fact for which he was eminently grateful. The Middle Rhine was the most romanticized portion of the whole river, an area that ran from "Golden Mainz" to Koeln in the north, a distance of 190 km length. Caution for the next 155 km was vitally important to them. In an odd twist of fate, La Vesta knew they would actually have an easier time of hiding their mobile suits during the day, when the waters of the Rhine would darken the shadows of the barges above them, clutched forcefully in the fingers of his Hygogg and the brutal claws of the Z'Gok Es. At night, the main camera illuminated the mono-eye in garish red light, which anyone paying even half-attention would notice immediately. That thought made La Vesta sweat.
Especially since not only was this the most romantic piece of this meandering river, it was also the most populated piece. Every three kilometers or so was another village, or town, or outright city, all of whose citizens were attracted to the waters like drunks to a beer tap. The cold helped with that, thankfully. While the Rhine would not freeze, its proximity would drop the mean temperature by another few degrees, which made it uncomfortable even to people who had lived here their whole lives.
Even without the main camera, the sonar system of the suits was enough to allow for relatively easy navigation, and the water allowed for communication using hydrophones instead of the radio.
"Hey, Sarge," piped up Nestor Hemphill, who was acting as a tour guide, using a Berlitz book as a reference for each place they passed, "did you know that the parliament building for Mainz used to be a Teutonic Knight commendam?" Hemphill pronounced it "Mains" instead of the proper "Mine-tz".
"No, Private, I didn't."
"We'll be coming up on Ingelsheim in a few klicks, sir. Charlemagne used to have his Imperial Palace there. There's still ruins."
"Who gives a shit, Hemphill?" remarked Vito Taglienti offhandedly.
"This is cool as hell, man!"
"Only if you're a fucking nerd or something."
La Vesta overrode them both. "Cut it out, toads. Save the bickering for the first target, okay? Nestor, keep pointing stuff out. Vito, pay attention or you'll end up like some Philistine."
"Yes, sir," muttered Taglienti around his chewing gum.
"Hey," Hemphill had found something else in his book, "we're gonna see CASTLES soon!!"
"What the fuck IS this, Sarge? Disneyworld?" Taglienti could not have been more derisive if he tried.
La Vesta sighed. This was going to be a long, long trip.
Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087
It had been a nightmare maneuvering the heavy-lift vehicle off of the Autobahn and into the forest that lay at the foothills of the Taunus Gebirge range, but de la Somme had refused to admit defeat. Teeth displayed in an impressive grimace of both aggravation and elation, the ace had taken the huge truck into the trees at speed, only slowing when he had to avoid a tree that was too big to plow through. Von Seydlitz had simply let him drive, and kept his opinion of the destruction to himself.
The suits, of course, had no difficulty moving whatsoever, their pilots more than familiar with the intricacies of in-forest handling. They fanned out, making certain that they had no followers before they melted into the trees. The helicopters had finally given up, and more were due to arrive soon, but they would find nothing when they got here. No Polizei had been brave enough to give chase on the Autobahn, and no one else in Hessia would be dumb enough to try and follow heavily-armed Zeon suits into the darkness that beckoned within the hills and hollows.
After several hours of skilled piloting under IR lights, they had finally arrived at the staging area. The two Dom Tropens, deactivated without their pilots, looked like sentinels in front of a collection of large tents, kneeling on one massive knee each, heads bowed low. There was no immediate sign of McKenna's Dom, but it was undoubtedly around somewhere. Weissdrake and his Gelgoogs were due to arrive in half an hour, barring unforeseen developments en route. Von Seydlitz opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out, carrying his map case with him. They were deep into the forest and mountains now, where only the creatures still lived.
"Get your wards out of the cargo area, have them cleaned and fed, then put them to bed under guard. After that, get your suit off of the vehicle and place it somewhere suitable for the evening. Once that is done with, come find us in the command tent."
"Gotcha, Colonel," answered de la Somme, glad enough to see his two people and their Dom Tropens intact that he pushed his own misgivings aside. "If you piss him off, I get to watch, okay?"
Von Seydlitz slammed the door shut without replying and started walking towards the center tent. It was so quiet here, far away from the big cities and so deep in the wilderness that a man could hear his own heartbeat as the loudest sound available to pick up on. In the middle of winter, most of the animals were hibernating, or had gone to warmer climes. The insects were silent, and only the occasional call of a nocturnal bird broke the silence. The occasional whine from a mobile suit was almost an unacceptable intrusion into the hushed ambience. He was keenly aware that every footstep he took crunched icy snow and dead leaves under his heel, audible for what seemed like miles. The voices of the men, getting boisterous in their own shelters and moving about in the woods, were not enough to dim the thunder of his own footfalls, even when de la Somme whistled for his men to help him with the eight children.
The temporary shelter was old, dating back to the War, but still in good condition from storage. Whatever holes had been in it were sewn shut with what looked like fishing wire. A light from a gas lantern was on inside. A crude wooden sign had been tacked onto the door with the insignia of a Zeon Major General embossed on it.
With every step he took towards that tent, he became more and more aware of how quiet everything was, but that the sound in his head was becoming very loud. It began as a whispering sensation, one that first touched his skin underneath the uniform and the greatcoat, making him shiver involuntarily. The whisper then changed, becoming louder and louder, until it was threatening to become a roar in his own mind, and the shivering became a trembling. By the time he was three steps from the tent, his teeth had clenched as tight as they could, the rushing in his head sounded like an ocean's tide slamming into a cliffside, and he was having to suck in his breath to control the trembling, which was just on the quiet side of spasms, and blink around the red that had begun to cloud his vision.
And as soon as it began, he identified the sensation, and the symptoms ceased. All except for the rushing in his head, and the redness in his sight. He knew this feeling, though it had never before been this strong that he could remember.
It was a feeling such that with it he felt he could simply sweep his arm across his vision and blow the forest and everything in it away. A feeling so intense it was hot, and suddenly the layers of uniform and coat seemed intolerably stifling. This was not a normal state for him, with the quickening of the blood and the adrenalin in his veins that made the world seem slow and himself seem so very, very fast, like a bolt of lightning to shatter that which offended him. A feeling so palpable, so immediate, that it brought hot tears into his eyes, and he rubbed at his eyes furiously to erase them and every trace of their presence. Tears had always been shameful to him, even if he faulted no one else for theirs.
Taking in a very deep breath, he managed to calm himself to the point where he was confident that he could speak without his teeth chattering. Then he knocked twice, paused, knocked twice again, paused again, then four times in quick succession, tap-tap---tap-tap---taptaptaptap, on the wooden sign, using the map case as a knocker. Then he went inside, without being bidden.
As was his right.
A space heater whirred in the far end of the tent, making the interior of the heavy fabric several dozen degrees warmer than the outside (about 75 F, if von Seydlitz was right). Sitting in the middle was a field table and two foldling chairs, a pair of standard issue military cots on the left side, perpendicular to each other. In one of the folding chairs sat Dietrich von Mellenthin, attired in a grayish-green T-shirt and his uniform trousers. His feet were bare, and he had them crossed on the tabletop. A field manual for a mobile suit was in his hands, and it was obvious that he had been intently reading it before the interruption, but with a measured slowness that von Seydlitz knew was deliberate, he took his eyes off of the pages and placed his gaze firmly on the face of his subordinate.
"Guten Abend, Reinhardt." And the blue eyes did not blink, even as a smile formed on the older yet too-familiar face like the sun's rise after a long rain.
"Guten Abend, Herr General," replied the gray eyes to the blue, but there was no smile on that face. Von Seydlitz placed the map case on the ground to the right of the tent door, then removed his gloves, stuffing them into the pockets of the greatcoat before removing that, as well. He tossed it on one of the cots, its weight leaving his mind even as it left his hand.
Von Mellenthin removed his feet from the table, planting them on the floor of the tent, putting the manual on the table as he stood to his 5'11" height, 9 cm shorter than von Seydlitz. "I see Antares failed in his mission. He never did manage to teach you to smile."
"You always did task him with the impossible, Generalmajor."
Von Mellenthin laughed quietly, but his eyebrows scrunched up over the bridge of his nose in the same way that von Seydlitz's would when something odd would come into question. "There were a few such impossibles he was good for back then. You were good for the rest of them."
He wondered why it was that von Seydlitz was keeping a distance between them, even after eight years apart. They were less than three meters from each other, but von Mellenthin felt that the remaining distance was more like three astronomical units. That was too much, and he took two steps towards his subordinate, who was removing the gray-and-gold uniform overjacket and not looking at him.
Von Seydlitz was quite aware of the narrowing proximity of his brother, and each step closer felt like a stab to the heart. His head felt light, and the rushing sound was still there, and he felt as though he were going to pass out, but he looked at his hands and they were steady. Then, von Mellenthin said the words that he rejoiced and despaired at having to hear:
"I missed you, Reinhardt. More than you can ever know."
But von Seydlitz did not miss. With a snarl of rage, prompted by a voice amidst the roar in his head that screamed "Do It NOW!!", he turned, drew back, swung his right fist around, and punched von Mellenthin in the face with every ounce of bitterness and ire that eight years could muster.